Location: Village of Branhal
Time: Morning
There was a heaviness in his limbs that didn't belong to injury.
Alec opened his eyes slowly, surfacing from the dark like a diver breaking through black water. His muscles throbbed—not sharp pain, but a deep, dull fatigue, like his body had been at war with gravity itself and only barely won.
He stayed still. Breathing.
The air smelled of damp earth, boiled herbs, and old wood. Beneath him, a rough straw-filled cot scratched his back. A coarse wool blanket covered him—patched, smoke-scented, handmade.
Not a hospital. Not a medbay. Not even a survival pod.
This was primitive.
Above him: thick wooden beams, hand-hewn, unsealed. No carbon-reinforced polymer. No conduit wiring. Spiderwebs in corners. Wattle-and-daub walls, cracked at the seams. The floor was uneven timber. From a narrow slit of a window, golden morning light poured in.
Birds chirped.
Outside, voices—unfamiliar cadence, but recognizably human. Male. Older. A cough. The squeal of a wooden wheel on dirt.
Alec let it all settle.
Environment. Soundscape. Language structure. No ambient electromagnetic fields. No data signals. No surveillance tones. No drones.
Rural. Pre-industrial. Agricultural economy. Iron Age-level, at best.
The rupture came flooding back—light like a blade through his thoughts. The singularity chamber collapsing. Dark matter rings screaming out of sync. Heat peeling through containment. He remembered shouting—was it his own?—before the flash erased everything.
Now, he was here.
Wherever here was.
He blinked again, harder. His vision cleared. His body was stabilizing—faster than it should. Cracked ribs. Blunt cranial trauma. Dehydration. Any other man would still be unconscious.
But Alec wasn't a man.
He was A13C. Germline-optimized. Neural-tuned. Built for high cognition, fast recovery, memory integrity, and adaptability under extreme stress. Not cybernetic. Just… perfected.
He sat up with a grunt. Pain shot through his side. A clean wrap had been tied around his ribs—tight, effective, primitive.
Someone had cared enough to keep him alive.
Footsteps. Then a door creaked.
He didn't flinch. He turned, steady.
The woman who entered carried a steaming bowl and a damp cloth. Early twenties, copper hair pulled back, sleeves rolled. Brown eyes—sharp, observant. Practical hands. A healer's gait.
She stopped short.
"Oh," she said, surprised. Not frightened.
Alec said nothing.
She came forward, calm, and set the bowl on a rough table. "You were half-dead when we found you. Do you understand me?"
He gave a slow nod.
Her accent was strange, but decipherable. A blend of archaic Earth tongues—Germanic, Prussian, a trace of Old Norse. His brain was already running phonetic matrices, aligning syntax.
He tested his voice. Rough. Hoarse. "...Where... is this?"
"Branhal," she said. Her brow knit slightly. "The village. You fell from the sky yesterday evening. There was… light. Fire."
He repeated the name. "Branhal."
Meaningless. A local node.
She reached for his bandage. "Let me check that."
He didn't stop her.
"How's your head?" she asked.
"Sore. No spinning."
"Black spots? Double vision?"
He paused. "None."
She nodded, satisfied. "My name's Mira. I'm the village healer. Sort of."
"You were the one who treated me?"
She gave a slight shrug. "Helped. You were bleeding from the head. Some cracked ribs. You're lucky. Another inch and the cut would've split your skull."
"How long?"
"Since you dropped in? A full day and a night. You were unconscious. Fevered. Mumbled things."
Alec didn't respond to that.
She stood, folding her arms. "What's your name?"
A pause. Just long enough to measure.
The lab hadn't given him a name—just an asset tag: A13C. Catalyst class.
"…Alec," he said finally.
Mira tilted her head. "Unusual name. Northern?"
"Distant," he replied. "Very distant."
She didn't press, but her eyes lingered—calculating. "Well, Alec, you should lie back. You might heal fast, but you're not made of steel."
"I can't stay still. Not when I don't know where I am."
She dipped the cloth into the bowl, wrung it out. "You're in Branhal. A village a day south of the Rindle River. Under the Duchy of Midgard. Just inside its borders."
"I've never heard of it."
"I guessed," she said, gently wiping dried blood from his temple. "Your clothes are strange. And you didn't fall off anything. No wings. No craft. You just… fell."
"I don't remember," Alec lied.
Mira's lips thinned. "Convenient."
He offered a faint smirk. "You don't trust me."
"I don't trust skyfire," she said simply. "But you're bleeding like a man. That counts for something."
Silence settled between them.
Alec scanned the hut again. No books. No instruments. Just jars, dried herbs, fire-heated tools. Simple. Clean. Effective. This world had never known electricity, chemistry, magnetism—nothing remotely approaching the Renaissance.
"I need to see more," he muttered.
Mira paused. "See what?"
"Your village. What it has. What it lacks."
She gave him a strange look. "You're not here for trade. You don't talk like a scholar. And you look at everything like you're solving a puzzle."
"I just want to understand," Alec said. "Where I am. Who I'm among."
"People who don't fall from the sky."
He met her gaze.
"They do now."
Outside the Healer's Hut
The village was waiting.
No pitchforks. Not yet. But plenty of stares. A dozen villagers stood nearby, murmuring, hands twitching toward amulets or prayer beads.
Mira stood beside Alec as he stepped into the light.
The sun burned his eyes for only a moment. Then his vision adjusted—precise, cataloging.
Population: ~200. Homes: wood, thatch, low insulation. Roadways: unpaved. Forge: present. No water mill. No harnessed energy. No standard units of measurement visible. Barter economy likely.
Farming. Livestock. Basic metallurgy. No printing. No optics. No glasswork beyond windows.
He was at least eight hundred years behind the curve. Maybe more.
And the people?
They watched him like a half-tamed wolf.
"Move along," Mira called. "He's not a threat."
A man stepped forward. Older, thick-chested, arms blackened with coal dust. A smith. Eyes like flint.
"You're Alec?" he asked, flat.
Alec nodded.
"You speak well. For a ghost."
"I listen fast."
The smith grunted. "You fall from the sky. You walk like a soldier. That makes men nervous."
"I'd be nervous too," Alec said. "I'm just trying to survive. Not start a war."
"We'll see." The man turned. "You want food, you work. Nothing's free here."
"I don't plan to be a burden," Alec said. "But I'll need wood. Clay. If there's iron, that too."
The smith frowned. "What for?"
Alec looked skyward. "Something simple. A signal."
The smith scoffed. "You won't reach the gods with smoke."
"I don't need gods," Alec said. "Just a spark."
Inside the Healer's Hut
Mira watched Alec sketch on a piece of old parchment—quick, clean strokes with a charcoal stub.
Not art. Not writing.
Design.
A long barrel. A trigger. A bracing stock. Chamber mechanics simplified in black smears.
"What is that?" she asked.
"A tool," Alec said, without looking up.
She narrowed her eyes. "A weapon."
"Yes."
"Why would you draw a weapon?"
Alec looked up, calm and clear-eyed.
"Because someone's going to try and kill me."
He set down the charcoal.
"And I'd rather be ready when they do."